


i'm not half as drunk as you first thought (so hold me close and i'll just rock you)

by huxleypearl



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bad at feelings, wine drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 22:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10796148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huxleypearl/pseuds/huxleypearl
Summary: Oswald paused to consider Ed’s riddle, tapping his chin. “I need to think about this. I should open another bottle. Should I open another bottle?” He began to down the rest of his glass, eager to try the bottle gifted from the Board of Education.Holding up a hand, Ed said, “No. Maybe? But I--things are--we should sleep together.”A choking noise escaped Oswald’s throat mid-gulp.--Or: Ed makes a suggestion and forgets. Oswald does not.





	i'm not half as drunk as you first thought (so hold me close and i'll just rock you)

**Author's Note:**

> literally haven't written fic in years but i watched 3x15 and it's still got me fucked up???? so here we are. also, the title is from cameron avery's [dance with me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHT-F6ZO3Jk) because i've never been original a day in my life and i'm not starting now.

Sprawled out in front of the fireplace, Oswald poured his sixth (or seventh?) glass of wine as he read over a stack of Gotham’s budget proposals. He had started the night sitting at his desk, but the alcohol dragged him closer to the fire. His cane was somewhere behind him.

A few feet away, Ed sank deeper into a plush chair. He swirled his own glass absentmindedly, his attention shifting from the open book on his lap to the man steadily working his way through a bottle of rosé.

It was a rare evening where neither of them were obligated to attend an event (usually legal, sometimes not) or run an errand (usually _illegal_ , sometimes not). They decided to uncork a bottle of red wine two--was it two?--hours ago, and one bottle became two, which poured into three--

Less than an hour into their accidental binge drinking, Ed quickly became aware that, despite their differences in size (which, anatomically speaking, _should_ have worked in Ed’s favor), Oswald could drink him under the table any day of the week. His head felt like he was swimming upstream against a belligerent current, making the words on the pages buzz and dance, lightly mocking him. He could hardly recall what he had even been reading, other than it _possibly_ had something to do with Chinese philosophy.

Oswald, on the other hand, flipped through the budget proposals with little struggle, pausing to drink from his glass or to occasionally scrawl notes in the margins. His only _real_ tell was that his usual process of “subtly look at Ed out of my peripheral vision every few minutes” would have been glaringly obvious to a blind dog.

He stared thoughtfully at an obnoxiously colored pie chart before he slipped his pen into his mouth. It dangled from his lower lip, and he twitched his jaw to twirl it from side to side. Ed watched the gold pen’s movement--well, no, he was _really_ staring at the pink lips it was sandwiched between--for longer than he should have, as Oswald gave him a questioning look before looking back down.

The thick air of unspoken tension between them was reaching unbearable levels. Ed could not place _what_ it was, but it was strangling both of them, Oswald especially. In the past week alone, Ed could recall fourteen instances in which Oswald had  _started_ to tell him something before deciding it wasn't terribly important.

Luckily for Oswald, Ed was a _problem solver._ Taking a sip of wine, he weighed their options. They could… _talk_ about it, but that was useless. Oswald seemed keen on avoiding the subject. Ed would have to wait for Oswald to bring it up, and that could take weeks, or even  _months_.

 _Or…_ Ed thought back to the Gordian knot. Sometimes the best solution was the simplest. The most direct.

 _That’s it_. Ed tilted his glass bottoms up, polishing off its sloshing contents.

Clumsily, Ed flipped his book (which was _maybe_ about Mencius) spine up, pyramiding it over the chair’s left arm. He straightened his glasses and ran a hand through his hair; he could tell by its texture that it was starting to curl, the rain from earlier being the culprit. _Good_ , because Oswald seemed to favor the waves.

 _This is for the sake of our professional relationship_ , he reminded himself. _Gauge his reaction._

“Oswald,” he slurred, his voice feeling like it did not quite fit in his mouth. This struck him as odd, because the name _definitely_ did.

Oswald turned his head to look at Ed. He asked pleasantly, “Yes?”

“Oswald,” Ed repeated, causing the man in question to raise an eyebrow, “I’ve been _thinking_.”

Sitting up a little straighter out of sheer amusement, Oswald bit down a giggle and asked, “And _what_ is on your mind, my friend?”

Ed leaned in, his eyes dark and intense. He asked, “I have built civilizations and destroyed them. I can be free of charge or cost a fortune. What am I?”

Oswald paused to consider Ed’s riddle, tapping his chin. “I need to think about this. I should open another bottle. Should I open another bottle?” He began to down the rest of his glass, eager to try the bottle gifted from the Board of Education.

Holding up a hand, Ed said, “No. Maybe? But I--things are--we should sleep together.”

A choking noise escaped Oswald’s throat mid-gulp.

“Are you okay?” Ed asked, concerned. He began to stand up, but he struggled to find his bearings.

Coughing with his head turned toward the ground, Oswald raised his right pointer finger, attempting to communicate that he was _physically_ fine. Once he regained his composure, he laughed nervously and said, “I’m sorry, Ed, but I think I misheard you. What was that?”

Without missing a beat, Ed repeated, “I think we should sleep together.”

Mouth hanging open, Oswald stared at Ed. His mind whirred with other meanings and euphemisms for “sleep together.” _Surely_ he misunderstood him. “Are you saying that we should share a bedroom?” Oswald inquired, the alcohol fusing with his biting paranoia. “Has someone been staking out the house?”

Ed managed to slur, “No, I think we should--sex. Sex.”

Bewildered he may have been, Oswald knew how and when to dig for more information. There was always a _reason_ behind Ed’s statements. He asked, “Why?”

And as _drunk_ as he may have been, Ed knew how and when to be coy. He answered, “You seem like you want to.” As soon as it escaped his lips, a wave of suspicion rolled over him, and puzzling moments were beginning to slide into place. Normally, he would catalog a realization like _that_ for further examination when he was alone, but--

_The stolen glances, the stuttering, the touching--_

Oswald cursed the flush that was blooming across his cheeks. Ed struggled to tear his gaze away from Oswald’s freckles.

“In what _way_?” Oswald pressed, deciding that he might as well go all in at this point.

Pausing, Ed raised both of his hands, his gaze upwards. “Your pupils dilate when you look at me,” he said, lifting his left thumb. Oswald’s eyes grew fractionally wider, but he remained quiet; he did not want to force his own hand this early.

“You laugh at my jokes, even when they’re not funny,” Ed continued, raising his left pointer finger.

“I enjoy your sense of humor,” Oswald mumbled, crossing his arms.

Ed waved his hands in what may have been an attempt at dismissal and said, “That’s a--classic. Classic sign.”

Standing up in one lunge (and knocking his long forgotten book to the floor), Ed almost lost his footing for a moment. Oswald moved to help him, but Ed threw his arms into a T-shape to maintain his balance before Oswald could stand up. He walked toward Oswald and crouched down, peering at him silently. Oswald eyed him curiously, but he waited for Ed to speak first.

“Am I right?” Ed asked, intentionally leaving the question open-ended. He knew he was, but he did not _know_.

The purpose of the question’s design was not lost on Oswald. He inquired, “About what?”

Ed flicked his tongue out to lick his lips, and Oswald followed it.

“You know,” Ed said, repositioning himself into a more comfortable sitting position. He leaned back on his hands, and he stretched his long, long legs (and Oswald caught _himself_ dragging his eyes over them, like a fool) in front of him.

“I don’t _really_  know, exactly,” Oswald admitted, pouring the last of the open bottle into his glass. He took a lengthy gulp, and Ed watched his throat bob. Oswald noticed that Ed was watching him. That, combined with the rush of alcohol, inspired Oswald to set his _own_ test.

A pinkish red line dribbled down Oswald’s chin, and Ed followed it. Oswald wiped the wine off with the back of his hand. Looking at Ed out of the corner of his eye, Oswald took a little longer than necessary to lick it away. Ed’s sharp intake of breath was quiet, but Oswald heard it.

Smiling impishly, Oswald hummed. “What was it you were saying about dilated pupils?” He asked, and now it was Ed’s turn to flush.

Turning to face Oswald, Ed coiled his legs beneath himself. Ed stared at Oswald, his eyes softening. He slowly raised a hand and cupped Oswald’s face. Oswald flinched at the sudden contact before he leaned into his touch and sighed. He looked at Ed through his lashes, all blue eyes and blown pupils, and he parted his lips slightly. Ed’s eyes widened.

Both were vaguely aware that an elaborate game of emotional chicken was unfolding faster than they could understand, and neither of them could pinpoint where “how much can I fuck with him” started and their real feelings ended.

“So,” Ed started, his eyes never leaving Oswald’s, “what do you think?”

The question rolled in Oswald’s mind. He knew the answer, but he was not ready for it. Not yet.

“I don’t think we should do anything after drinking… however much we drank, god _bless_ the suck-ups of Gotham,” Oswald said diplomatically, gesturing toward the empty bottles. His vision was beginning to blur, so he refrained from counting them out loud.

“You’re avoiding the real question--and yet,” Ed said, his eyes narrowing in thought, “I think you answered it.”

Oswald shrugged. “Perhaps. There’s always room for interpretation,” he said, the last word stumbling out of his mouth.

Ed leaned in so close that Oswald went cross-eyed trying to look at him. Oswald did not flinch at the sudden invasion of personal space, so Ed took that as a sign. He closed his eyes and gently pressed his lips against Oswald’s.

Stunned, Oswald sat there for a few seconds, unsure if this was _really happening, holy shit_. He slowly wrapped his arms around Ed’s neck and kissed back, leaning into Ed. Ed pulled Oswald into his lap, helping Oswald shift his bad leg into a more comfortable position. Ed rested his own hands on Oswald’s hips, gripping them, and Oswald shivered at the sensation.

Ed broke the kiss to press his lips against Oswald’s jaw. He licked down to his neck and bit lightly. Oswald tilted back his neck and shuttered his eyes, sighing.

“No,” Oswald gasped, pulling away. “I’m too drunk, and you’re _far_ too drunk. This is a bad idea.”

Perplexed and a touch offended, Ed said, “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

“I--no, I can’t. I don’t want to regret this in the morning,” Oswald murmured, looking earnestly into Ed’s brown eyes.

Mouth shifting into a tight frown, Ed said tightly, “I see.” He gently pushed Oswald away and out of his lap before standing up. He turned around to go upstairs. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ed,” Oswald cried, realizing his mistake, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry!” He groped for his cane and forced himself up, his leg screaming at him.

By the time Oswald reached the top of the stairs, Ed was already in his room, the door shut and the lights snuffed out. Oswald pressed his forehead against the door and sighed before retiring to his own bedroom. He hardly slept.

\--

Ed woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and a disgustingly dry mouth. He threw his forearm over his eyes, blocking the sunlight. With his free hand, he blindly felt for _anything_ liquid on his nightstand. He withdrew a plastic bottle. Gingerly, he sat up in bed, eyes still shut tightly. He unscrewed the cap and silently celebrated that the acrid scent of alcohol did not accost him, because _that_ would have been vomit inducing. Ed slowly drank the water.

Ed eventually forced himself up when he heard Olga shuffling downstairs in the kitchen. He swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and briefly dipped his head into his hands. Focusing, he stood up and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand before walking downstairs.

Oswald was already sitting at the table, sliding bright red jam across a slice of toast. He looked at Ed and blinked. “Good morning, Ed,” he clipped, a touch more curt than usual. Ed reasoned that he must have been hungover as well, so he shrugged it off.

“Good morning, Oswald,” Ed said, sitting across from him. He unfolded the newspaper Olga always laid out for him and smoothed it out in front of him. “Huh. There was an explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs.”

Oswald furrowed his brows. “Really?” He asked, equal parts annoyed and confused.

Tilting his head to the side, Ed inquired, “Is something wrong?”

Slowly, and maybe with a small amount of horror, Oswald asked, “Do you not remember?”

Ed blinked at Oswald, confused. “Remember what?” He asked. He remembered _everything_ , but nothing was coming to mind.

“What happened last night?” Oswald inquired, still surprised.

Ed’s thoughts drifted back to last night. He remembered drinking, watching Oswald work on… budget proposals, reading--well, _trying_ to read, _more_ drinking, and--there was _something--_

“Did we get into an argument?” Ed asked, frowning.

Gaping at Ed, Oswald dropped his butter knife onto his plate. The clanging rang in Ed’s ears, making him recoil.

“We--you--,” Oswald stuttered, not sure where he was going with this. He finally settled on saying, “We did. You stormed out of the room.”

Taken aback, Ed leaned in closer; Oswald ignored the attractive stubble on his face. Ed asked, “Really? What upset me?”

Choosing his words carefully, Oswald simply said, “We had a disagreement over moving forward.”

Humming in response, Ed leaned back in his chair. “That’s odd,” he muttered, and he grabbed a slice of toast. He chewed on it thoughtfully, his eyebrows knitting.

“You can say that again,” Oswald mumbled, stabbing a strawberry with his fork.

“Did you know that strawberries are considered an aphrodisiac?” Ed asked, before picking up a small set of tongs. He placed a few onto his own plate.

Fork halfway to his mouth, Oswald blinked. “No, I didn’t know that,” Oswald said, hoping this conversation would not derail like last night’s. Ed rattling off facts was usually a good sign.

“Their outer seeds are associated with fertility,” Ed continued, and he picked one up with his fingers. He scrunched his nose in distaste; Olga had not quite cut off the entire stem. He raised it to his mouth and bit into it, shutting his eyes.

Oswald felt his mouth run dry. “That’s interesting,” he hummed, making a point to concentrate on carefully pouring tea into his mug.

After chewing and swallowing, Ed nodded and said, “I agree.” The fruit had stained his fingers, so he licked the color off. If Oswald twitched, Ed didn’t notice.

Picking up another strawberry, Ed rolled it in his fingers, examining it. He commented, “I suspect that their shape, coupled with them being _so darn messy_ , has something to do with it as well. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Oswald replied, more breathily than he would have preferred. He cleared his throat before he placed his hands flat on the table and smiled. He announced, “If you’ll excuse me, Ed, I’m going to get ready for the day.” He hastily pushed his chair out from the table and stood up.

Put out that Oswald was already getting up, Ed suppressed a sigh. “You have a meeting in two hours, so I should start getting dressed too,” he said, also standing up from the table. His white t-shirt rode up, and Oswald’s gaze flicked to the exposed skin before he chastised himself into turning around.

“I will see you shortly, Ed,” Oswald said, waving before he hobbled toward the stairs.

“Likewise, Oswald,” Ed called, and he busied himself with properly rolling up the newspaper. Truthfully, he was still dwelling on the fact that not only did he and Oswald have _any_ kind of heated argument last night, but that he could not recall _any_ of it. He had never been keen on drinking. Drinking with Oswald was different, though; it was _fun_.

However, Ed was not one to simply chalk up things to remaining a mystery. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked to his bedroom.

Oswald sat at his vanity. It once belonged to his monster of a stepmother, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with it; it was a piece of furniture he knows _his_ mother would have loved.

He picked up a black kohl liner. Closing his left eye, he lightly ran the liner above his eyelashes. He gently pulled down the skin under his left eye and lined underneath his eyelashes. He repeated the process with his right eye. Once he was satisfied, he brushed a black mascara wand over his lashes. Turning his head from side to side to inspect his handiwork, he noticed a smattering of pink marks on his neck; evidence from the night before. His robe’s collar from earlier concealed them, so Ed didn’t notice.

A blush crept up his neck as he thought about last night _and_ this morning.

 _This is so much worse than before_ , Oswald thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. _He has to be doing this on purpose._

Sighing, he grabbed a scarf and wrapped it strategically around his neck. Ed would probably comment on him wearing a scarf in the warmer weather, but _that_ was preferred to being questioned about the marks on his neck.

In the bathroom, Ed toweled his hair dry; the thought of putting a blow dryer to it _today_ made him cringe, so he resigned himself to a day of wavy hair.

Looking into the mirror, he dipped his fingers into a tub of well-loved pomade and worked it through his hair, smoothing down any offending strays. Moving to the closet, he looked through the line of suits. He pulled out a forest green jacket to inspect it, running his fingers down the sleeves.

Oswald’s behavior as of late puzzled him. Ed was used to making people at least a _little_ nervous, but not Oswald.

“Was it something _I_ said?” He muttered to himself as he buttoned up a white dress shirt. "Did a riddle annoy him?"

That-- _that_ stirred a memory. Closing his eyes, he dug for it within the recesses of his mind. To his frustration, it was mostly surrounded by fuzzy black, but--

He heard himself say, “I have built civilizations and destroyed them. I can be free of charge or cost a fortune. What am I?”

**Author's Note:**

> pls be gentle


End file.
